


Your shape in the doorway

by MToddWebster (RembrandtsWife)



Series: Your Shape in the Doorway [1]
Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Biting, Future Fic, Gender Ambiguity, Hair Kink, Other, RPF, Reunion Sex, Tea, and a nap, and biscuits, then sex, unspecified gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24597853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/MToddWebster
Summary: For all the months you were apart, separated not just by career and country but by pandemic and quarantine, you've dreamt about touching him.
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Character(s), Andrew Hozier-Byrne/You
Series: Your Shape in the Doorway [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839052
Comments: 14
Kudos: 91





	Your shape in the doorway

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little self-indulgence, a little self-reminder that I did use to write fic. *g* Thanks to roosebolton for the title and some other suggestions.
> 
> Friendly disclaimer: This is a work of fiction about a fictionalized version of a public figure. In other words, it's not real.

For all the months you were apart, separated not just by career and country but by pandemic and quarantine, you've dreamt about touching him. Waking, sleeping, literally day and night, you've thought about his mouth and his hair and the feel of his chuckle when your head is on his chest. By the time you're actually at his door, your yearning has narrowed down to one long filthy passionate kiss.

That's not what happens. 

You ring the bell and try not to let your knees knock, because you're shaking all over. He had apologized a dozen times for not being able to pick you up at the airport; it doesn't matter. You're here, in front of Andrew's door, not in a hotel going up on the elevator, you're here, and the door opens.

There he is.

You have a moment to notice that, like so many people, he's neatly groomed again: Beard trimmed, hair artfully bunned up. He looks younger than you remember him. Then he makes a smothered noise and throws his arms around you.

It's not that passionate kiss you were expecting, dreaming of. Somehow it's better, his lean arms around you, your face to his chest, his cheek pressing to the top of your head, and he's shaking just as much as you are. The fine curls on his chest tickle your cheek--you've missed that. He smells freshly of his woodsy soap and his favorite cologne; you probably smell of airplane and taxi, unfortunately. He doesn't seem to care. He just holds you, and you hold him, and you breathe each other in.

"Andy," you say at last.

"Mmm?"

"I'm still holding my suitcase."

Andrew breaks out into laughter and lets you go with one last squeeze. You get to see one of those gorgeous full-power smiles before he takes your suitcase and spirits it away. Sagging, you let down your backpack and drop it by the coat rack, then hang up your coat. Andrew returns, holding out a hand. 

"Want a cuppa tea? I've got biscuits."

The only people who love tea more than the English are the Irish. And yes, it's cold, you're tired and jet-lagged... you take his hand and follow him into the kitchen. 

He pours you a glass of water without asking if you want it and starts making tea, while you plop down at the table. He hums under his breath as he rinses the tea pot and fills the electric kettle; you don't recognize the tune and wonder if it's something he's working on, but you're too zoned out to ask. You drink your water and watch Andrew as he putters around his kitchen, pouring the water into the pot, assembling goodies on a plate. He's bought all the Irish stuff you like that you can rarely get back home--McVitie's and HobNobs and some genuine Cadbury mini chocolate bars, too. Bless the man.

You smile and blink sleepily, chewing a HobNob, while he pours your tea and fixes it the way you like, lots of milk and sugar. He hands you the cup and you drink, obediently. It's hot enough and strong enough to shock you awake a little bit, in a good way. 

"How was the trip?" Andrew asks, as if you haven't been in touch with him along the way.

"It was fine. Security lines are still kind of slow even compared to--" You wave your hand vaguely and snag another chocolate bar. "I'm so tired, though. Can't even talk."

He peeks into your cup and refills it. "Don't worry about that. We can talk later." He pushes the cup toward you and wraps his hand, still warm, around the back of your neck. Familiar strong fingers knead the base of your skull and work their way down to your shoulder, and you feel yourself melting in your seat, months of tension leaving you all at once. 

"Why don't you finish your tea and take a nap? We can catch up later." The corners of his mouth twist up in a little smile that says "catching up" is going to include more than just conversation. Despite months apart, you're too jetlagged to feel anything but a warm glow that's mostly in the region of your heart.

A few minutes later, Andrew tucks you into bed like the world's tallest, gangliest mother hen. "I'll come join you in a little while, okay? Got something I want to record first."

You hear a couple of notes on a keyboard from down the hall before you fall deeply, utterly asleep. 

When you wake up, the room is dark except for the lamp on the dresser, and there's a mass of brown curls on the pillow next to yours. You turn toward him under the covers and treat yourself to a good look at his face, three-dimensional, sharp focus, right there.

His hair is still longer than when you first met, though not as long as it got during quarantine. (He confessed one day by text that he'd asked his mother for a trim.) His beard is shorter than it's been for a while, but he doesn't like going clean-shaven; he won't quite come out and say it, but he looks younger that way. His eyes are closed; you suppress the urge to touch the brown mole over his right eye and trace the thick, level lines of his eyebrows. As always, you are fascinated by his mouth, the deep groove of his upper lip, the fullness of his lower lip, how soft his lips are between the bristles of beard.

It's possible you're breathing a little heavily all of a sudden. One deep green eye opens, then the corner of his mouth that you can see curls up, and he shifts and the other eye opens, the smile widens. "Hey."

"Hey," you respond, and tuck yourself under the proffered arm, snuggling close. He's wearing his usual t-shirt and boxers, and he's sleepy-warm--except for his feet. You squeak when your foot touches his.

"Sorry... should've left my socks on, shouldn't I?" He lowers his voice in a confidential way. "I dunno about you, though, but I hate having sex with my socks on, yeah?"

He's still smiling when he kisses you, and you're laughing. He turns over so that you're partly under him, and you wind your hands into his hair, groaning with the pleasure of it--Christ, you'd missed playing with his hair. All of a sudden the kiss goes from affectionate and playful to the kiss you were dreaming of; he catches your upper lip between his teeth, tugs, lets go and sucks onto your lower lip, and you're whimpering into his mouth, pressing your body up against his as he does wet, filthy things with his tongue.

By the time you have to break for air, he's hard against your thigh, you're dizzy with need, and you're both panting. His eyes widen, and he bares his teeth in something more like a snarl than a smile. Then he puts his mouth close to your ear and growls, "I'd like to eat--you--up--"

The explosion of breath at the end of that sentence caresses your ear and ripples all the way down to your toes. You nudge his cheek with your nose and he looks into your eyes. "Do it." You bite off the final word. 

His fans like to call him "feral". You used to, when you were just a fan. Anyone can see it in his performances, the way he approaches certain songs, the wild smile and tossing hair, hands weaving the notes, the stomp of his foot or the bend of his whole body. Offstage he is usually composed, polite, thoughtful in front of the public; goofy with his band mates, letting the accent come on strong, sprinkling F-bombs with joy as much as anger.

In bed, he's usually a kind and solicitous lover, tender, playful, eager to satisfy you... until the planets align a certain way and then, oh yes, he's feral. 

He kisses his way down your body with as much teeth as tongue and lips, quick bites and sucking contrasting with the slow sweep of his unbound mane over your skin. His hands grip your hips, harder than usual, holding you still while he licks and tastes. You hear yourself shouting so loud that it’s a good thing he lives in the woods; back home your neighbors would be knocking at the door to make sure you’re okay. 

You want to touch him, to give something back, but it’s just too good; you can’t do anything but lie there while his mouth torments you, his long fingers flex against your skin. You wonder if his teeth will leave marks and hope that they do, not something you’ve ever wanted from a lover. When he’s like this… when he’s like this….

He leaves you hanging on the edge of orgasm, open-mouthed and quivering. And runs his tongue over his teeth.

A light touch asks your consent. He never fails to ask in some way, to make sure you want what he wants, even if, like now, it’s just a touch and a look from him answered by a whimper and a frantic nod from you. 

His fingers stroke and then open you, still not pushing you to orgasm. You grit your teeth and hang on, trying to hold back until the absolute peak moment. And at last he slides inside you, with a groan that throbs in your belly, filling the emptiness that’s been as much in your soul as in your body. 

He buries his face against the side of your neck. “Missed you so much.”

You twine your fingers in his hair. “So much. Please--”

He moves inside you, groaning again, slow and delicious friction. You moan, pulling helplessly at his hair, as the first tremors of orgasm move at the base of your spine, and without warning he jerks back and thrusts hard, and you know this isn’t going to be one of those long languorous sessions where you shift through positions like an erotic yoga sequence and laugh and talk and come numerous times. No, this is going to be a hard fast fuck and that’s exactly what you want, his full strength unleashed, his teeth bared, and you scream without restraint as the orgasm hits you, keep coming as he hurries after you and comes like a tidal wave, breaking over you again again until you feel like your whole body and being have dissolved in it.

It takes a while for your molecules to reassemble enough to contain consciousness. When they do, he’s still on and in you, but softening inside. His breath is long and slow, just on the waking side of a snore.

You push his hair off your face and that rouses him. He moves away with an incredibly sweet smile beamed at your face, then kneels up awkwardly to grab a handful of tissues, which he offers you. You both mop up a bit, until you feel like you can sit up without dripping everywhere. 

“So, what do you want to do tonight?” He sweeps his now-tangled hair back from his face.

Irresistibly, the answer springs to your lips. “The same thing we do every night, Pinky: try to take over the world!”

Laughing, he pushes you back down on the bed and kisses you breathless.


End file.
